


Seven Conversations

by 22to22



Category: Warframe
Genre: Gen, it's cool how every warframe is canonically trans, nonbinary tenno, self-harm mention, spoilers for chains of harrow, spoilers for limbo's mission, spoilers for second dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 13:35:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14137098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/22to22/pseuds/22to22
Summary: A short collection of drabbles I wrote like a year ago; I'm pretty sure Limbo's powers don't even work the same and there's all sorts of incongruities but whatever, that's how it goes sometimes.





	Seven Conversations

 

Vauban, ever the tactician, is more interested in the layout of the location. “Against our power, Corpus are merely numbers,” Vauban explains, “but we can be overwhelmed by numbers. Instead of fighting the individual, we can turn the lay of the land against our enemies: choke points lit up by grenades, suspension for those who get close enough to be a concern, and tripmines to alert us where to shift the focus of fire.” 

“That’s fine against footsoldiers, but what of the bursa, or the corpus tech? What of the Jackal?” Dante presses.

Vauban shifts uncomfortably. “If you’re asking whether I’m afraid to get my hands dirty, Operator, it’s nothing you have to worry about. But I’m no duelist. I gave up the privilege of the front line a long time ago. If that’s your aim, go to Mesa, or Mag. If it becomes unavoidable, we’ll just find a more tactical position, and leave them a trail of grenades to follow through a chokepoint we use at our leisure.” 

Satisfied by his answer, Dante settles xir head in xir hands and watches Vauban as he shuffles through blueprints. “What will you do when the war is over?”

Vauban turns his big drunken train face to look at Dante, cocking it to the side in almost a grin. “We’re called warframes, Operator.”

“Humor me,” Dante persists.

Vauban hangs his head for a moment, pondering the question. “I suppose we’d go into architecture. If this is what we can do on the spur of the moment in combat,” he splays his hands, “imagine the kind of hostile territory we could build with the luxury of peacetime?”

 

 

* * *

 

“What happens when you die?”

“Why, you’re restored to your body, Operator,” Nova says cheerfully, “and we try again, if we can.” They scoop up credits from the asteroid cache and briefly alight on the dented container, giving their archwing a chance to spin up. With a whirring hum, they glide to the next asteroid, gold particles leaving a spiraling trail in their wake. 

“No, dear, I know that,” says Dante, “but what happens to you when I lose transference?”

Their wings fan out as they slow their approach, and Nova ponders this for a moment, all joyful color and swirling gold. “Well, I don’t know; I’ve never died. I’ve only been reborn, to watch our old body disintegrate into raw data.” Nova slows one golden particle, letting it weave between delicate fingers. “I believe that’s the same data you sacrifice to bring us back from death. So, I can’t know, can I?” Nova releases the particle and runs their fingers along the seams of a container embedded in the asteroid. “All I know is the rebirth-- but you understand that feeling better than I could put into words, already.”

“I suppose,” Dante concedes reluctantly.

“Why the rush?” With a gesture, Nova flicks the orb, and the container explodes in a cloud of pink nebulae, lush and dark and crackling with energy. “You’re guaranteed to find out what death feels like eventually. Let’s discover other things in the meantime.”

 

* * *

 

“Do you speak to the other warframes?”

“Couldn’t if I wanted to,” Mesa checks down the revolver’s scope, “and from what I’ve gathered from the other  _ tenno _ we’ve met, I don’t think it’d be much of a conversation.”

“Why is that?” Dante asks.

“Don’t exactly have mouths, do we?” Mesa taps his chin. “You’re the only one of us who can slip in and out of our bodies. Without you around, the ghosts of our machinery don’t have voices that carry.”

Most of the squad has scattered across the base, hunting down packs of Grineer and taking the fight to the source. That leaves Mesa in a dull moment, idly twirling his revolver as he leans against the steel and glass coffin they were sent to protect. “Ordis tries to talk to us sometimes,” he admits. “Though, I think it’s more out of his own loneliness than it is expecting us to talk back, which is sort of sad. And there’s the dogs. I like the dogs.” He rubs the back of his neck. “We don’t get to touch things very often.”

The kubrows and helminths aboard the ship all require physical attention to maintain their health and loyalty. Their fur is coarse and thick, and helminth skin is taut and fever-hot. Dante folds xir hands in xir lap. “No, we don’t,” xe agrees quietly.

 

* * *

 

“Do you remember anything from before you were built?”

“No, Operator,” Limbo replies, delicately placing another card on a stack that threatens to slide off the tilted surface of the console she’s here to protect. “Though you’ve spoken of a sister I had once, floating out in space, whose rib you plucked to make me. Is that what you’re after?”

“Yes, dear,” Dante leans forward. “Do you remember her?”

She settles her chin on a bent wrist, hat buoyed by a jet of energy as she thinks. Behind her, Dante can see the Corpus soldiers frozen in place along the fuzzy white edges of her void bubble. “She was clever,” Limbo finally says. “Very clever, and ambitious, and riotously funny.”

“But you never met her,” xe falters.

“No, but I’ve met the sequel, and she’s twice the cad as the original,” Limbo splays her fingers across her chest, her hat dipping at a coy angle on her head. “You know what her problem was? She tried to play to too large an audience. We’re not for mass consumption. Our tricks are close-up magic; our shows are very exclusive--invite only. Too many guests in the audience, and someone’s bound to miss a punchline.”

“Maybe she got too lonely.”

“The spotlight’s always lonely, love,” Limbo says.

 

* * *

 

“You don’t like fighting, do you?”

Zephyr’s shoulders stiffen under Dante’s hands, and though their back is to xir, the tightening cord of muscle in their neck gives them away. “I fight for the good of the system,” they say carefully, “and with you, Operator, it is a happy task.”

“It’s okay.” Dante smooths the coiled muscle in the warframe’s neck with xir thumbs and flattens the plasticine feathers in their shoulders. “It wears on me, too.”

“We visit so many amazing planets,” They say, quietly. “And truly beautiful ships, with so many little secret places hidden away. Not many treasures to be found there, maybe a few credits--but the discovery is plenty reward. But, we so rarely have the time to slow down and really explore these ruins with the attention they deserve.”

Zephyr finally relaxes back against xir again, sitting at Dante’s feet as their operator works kinks and bullets out of their muscles, occasionally scraping out a rivulet of blood that dried in a hard-to-reach crevice. Their weight barely registers against xir at all; even with muscles atrophied from bed-rest, Dante could probably lift them in xir arms.

“It’s not as if a good fight isn’t rewarding in its own way,” They reason. “But if I can flee, or ignore incoming fire, or dismiss our enemies outright, why wouldn’t I? There is simply so much out there more interesting to see than the insides of another Grineer.”

 

* * *

 

Harrow’s thurible sinks into his own back with a heavy  _ whunch  _ as he breaks through shielding to expose raw wounds to the air. It reminds Dante of something Equinox said once--”Pain is a renewable resource,” two voices in perfect harmony-- and as Harrow overhears the passing thought, Dante immediately regrets thinking it.

Harrow’s body is cold from void exposure, like a ship’s hull frostbitten against space. He is frigid but not numb, and makes a point of reminding himself of this with the fanged chainlinks of the smoking censer. At his core is a warmth that plumes out with every strike, a rush of zealous energy that feeds and protects those he cares about--and he cares achingly and desperately for everyone he meets. 

It’s the kind of passion a dog has for a passing car, though. A few minutes without gunfire and it becomes obvious how rarely the void called for small talk or eye contact.

Dante wants to ask him about Rell, but doesn’t know how. Xe sets out Rell’s stim and listens to it hum, hoping Harrow will respond to it somehow, but xe thinks it drives away the man in the walls, and xe is desperate to find him again. Xe knows, from what other tenno have said, that the man in the walls won’t say anything more than xe’s already heard, but xe needs to look into those eyes like galaxies, to hear that voice drip out of xyr own face. Harrow senses he is not the focus even while he is worn and recedes quietly into himself, and Dante gets nothing from no one.

 

* * *

 

 

The Frost Prime is a temporary loan, a show of good faith from the Lotus for favors rendered. It’ll be gone by the month’s end. While Dante has a deep appreciation for the frame, especially as an ally, xe never found its body to be much of a home. This wasn’t a reflection of Frost’s value. There were dozens of warframes, even a few favorites, that Dante only lingered in long enough to feel as though xe understood them. They slept on, undisturbed by alerts and unopened relics, as Equinox or Vauban waylaid the battlefield and Zephyr circled overhead.

But, stepping out of the transference pod, circling the vast and soft-edged body of the war machine, Dante wanted very badly to linger. Maybe the finality of its departure made their time together in the interim more valuable than that of the Frost asleep in ship storage. Xe wanted to reach up and trace the cathedral arcs of its helmet, to burn xir fingers with frostbite from the steam jets on its arms. Xir thoughts flickered briefly to the decorative skin xe had bought when Frost was still new to xem, of sculpted abs and plunging hems. Xe wonders aloud whether it would like to try it on.

But the frame is silent. Its body is beautiful and crisp white like fresh snow, but where Dante would plumb for a frame’s personality in its mind--a room xe would define with their boundaries and furnish with their wants and needs--xe finds an empty space, and a locked door. Xe is a guest in its skin, as much as it is a guest on xir ship. 

Dante steps back a pace and clasps xir hands behind xir back, but continues to stare at the motionless warframe. The math in xir head figures that being looked at is a burden the Frost Prime can stand to bear. Anything beyond that... It is here as a gift, and xe can’t know which services offered by it are by its choosing. There is no infinite time stretched out between them to reconcile harm rendered, to negotiate boundaries and pleasures, as xe practices with Nova or Limbo. In a month, the Frost Prime will not linger. 

So, neither does Dante. 


End file.
